


My Shyness Mistaken for Rudeness

by downdeepinside



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Prompt Fill, Teenlock, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 21:50:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downdeepinside/pseuds/downdeepinside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on tumblr; 'How about a really shy Sherlock AU?'</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Shyness Mistaken for Rudeness

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the following quote: “My Shyness Is Often Mistaken As My Rudeness” ― Spriha.
> 
> Please inform me of any errors. I don't like this much but enough effort went into it for me to warrant uploading it. 
> 
> (I've just realised I've only literally glanced at this so I will properly read it to check for errors in the morning).

There are two sides to Sherlock Holmes, John has discovered. There’s the loud, overly-confident and socially unaware boy who sits in the corner of the class room and calls out typical phrases such as “wrong” and “boring”, tapping his pen against the desk with his shoulders slouched as his eyes flick lazily over the room and he gives subtle glares out to those pointing and scowling at him. Then, there’s the other Sherlock. The Sherlock who slinks along the outskirts of the canteen at lunch hoping no one will notice him, who keeps his folders hugged tightly against his chest as he shuffles down the corridor with his head down, who closes his eyes and turns his head when someone talks directly to him. This Sherlock, this unbelievably cautious and incredibly reserved version of him, is not something that is hidden from the world. He makes no secret of the fact he is shy. It is simply that, in a world of class presidents and athletic teams, the nerd hiding in the corner only gets noticed when you’re forced to pair up with them for a report – or possibly when the teacher holds a class where the students are expected to ‘contribute or else’.

In a world of barking bitches and callous cats, Sherlock is a muted mouse.

***

The first time John Watson approaches the strange boy is actually the first day of year 11. John’s (finally) been shifted from the bottom group in maths to the middle and Sherlock (a further mathematician with the attention span of a five years old) is sitting in his usual seat, two rows from the back next to the wall: Hiding in plain sight.

John’s late to class, having had a doctor’s appointment in the morning. Upon rushing into class he realises there are very few seating options left, having already missed the first year of studying with the class. He pulls on the straps of his rucksack and approaches a girl from his biology class, only to receive a minute head-shake in response. With a sigh, he turns and sits in the nearest seat possible to avoid making a scene.

The raven-haired boy blinks at him in shock as he sits in the spare chair adjacent to him.

“Alright?” John whispers as he pulls out a book and pen, letting them hit the desk with a small thump. The teacher at the front of the room smiles and turns to her whiteboard of quadratic equations – happy the new student seems settled enough. When the lanky teen continues to say nothing John smiles and holds up a hand in an awkward wave, “Er, I’m John. Don’t think we’ve ever met.”

The other boy continues to stare at John in silence and eventually he sighs, resigning himself to a long lesson. He scribbles a title on his page and squints at the board to copy notes.

It isn’t until the end of the lesson the stranger finally speaks up, glancing over his shoulder awkwardly just as he’s about to escape the room. His cheeks flush red and he smiles nervously, “Sherlock,” he rushes out, before turning a deeper shade of red and rushing a hand quickly through his curls, “I mean – I – I’m Sherlock. The name’s Sherlock.”

He blinks before shaking his head and turning quickly to leave the room.

***

The awkward maths lessons become less so over time, to the point where halfway through March John has the privilege of being one of the very few to ever see Sherlock genuinely laugh. One of Sherlock’s sheepish smiles turns into a giggle, and that giggle soon escalates to a full-scale laugh. His head tips back and his nose crinkle ever so slightly, his laugh ridiculously loud and silly. The teacher at the front of the room immediately looks up to shush him, and John leans over to quickly shove a hand over his friend’s mouth – which only causes Sherlock to laugh more. John smothers a giggle of his own as Sherlock’s hands flail around, desperately trying to get his mirth under control.

In the end, both boys are sent from the room.

They don’t mind.

***

“Oi, move your stuff you berk.”

Sherlock looks up slowly, a small (crust-less) cheese sandwich clutched tightly in his grip. He stares at John, who stands across from him on the other side of the cafeteria bench, and the slightly older boy finds his look reminiscent of the very first maths lesson all those months ago. He sighs and picks up Sherlock’s bag, dropping it on the floor before sitting himself down.

“What’s up? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

Sherlock slowly puts his sandwich down and tugs a little at the ends of his school shirt. A beat passes before he mumbles, “You’re going to sit here?” in a somewhat irate tone.

“You don’t want me to?” John immediately intones, already his hands hovering over his lunch tray ready to make a run for it. Sherlock frowns and looks up, shaking his head ever so slightly. John rolls his eyes, “You’re bloody awkward, did you know that?”

Sherlock picks up his sandwich and takes a bite.

***

Study leave starts in May, and one John Watson finds himself sitting alone in the library at ridiculous-o’clock staring blankly at his physics textbook. Biology and chemistry have always been more of his thing. Just as he’s about to call it a day, debating the wisdom behind walking home in the dark and the rain, a familiar face storms into the library and marches straight up to the librarian. He slams a sheet of paper down on the man’s desk and scowls, waving his arms in the air.

“What the hell is this supposed to mean?”

The librarian jumps and looks from the paper to the boy for a second, before frowning and folding his arms. “Mr Holmes, is it?”

The boy growls and rests his palms face down on the desk, “Sherlock.” He corrects.

“You seem an intelligent lad, Sherlock. I’d say you can see perfectly well what that letter is supposed to mean.”

“You’re _fining_ me.”

“Of course.”

“For what?!”

The librarian glances around the room quickly before forcing a smile that could make children cry. He reaches under the desk and pulls out what looks like an incredibly singed block of papers. “What do _you_ think?”

Sherlock glares at the object, a book, John notes, and straightens up quickly. “At least I gave it back on time.”

“Mr Holmes half of the pages are _missing_.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Mr Hol-!”

“Sherlock?”

Both the librarian and the boy freeze at the sound of a third party. The librarian turns to give John a somewhat muted look of frustration, and Sherlock’s eyes instead turn to saucers as his eyes widen impossibly. His cheeks go a light shade of pink and his hands start to awkwardly flit around.

“You alright mate? You look a little like you haven’t slept since study leave started.”

Sherlock merely twitches a little in response and John sighs, stepping forward to rest a hand on his shoulder, “Come on, let’s get you out of here before you piss of the entire library.”

***

The two boys walk in silence, it’s dark outside and a little chilly but neither thinks to aim for a specific location. They find themselves in a park and John’s gaze flicks from a lone bench besides a tree to Sherlock. After a few moments he shrugs to himself and takes a few strides towards the bench, plopping his bag down on the floor and flopping onto the seat beside it.

A short while later Sherlock joins him.

“I’m not very good at this,” he says, his fingers weaving impossible patterns on his dark jeans. John stares ahead and hums quietly in assent, his eyes falling shut as the hours of endless revision start to catch up with him. “People don’t… I don’t exactly have _friends_.”

John snorts and rubs a hand over his face, “No. Well, well you do now. Hey?”

Sherlock fidgets on the damp park bench, “Apparently.” He pauses, pulls his knees up to his chest, another way of hiding himself away, and cracks a nervous smile, “Physics really isn’t that hard, you know.”

The shorter boy huffs a laugh and slings an arm out to playfully whack Sherlock on the head, “If it’s that easy you can bloody tutor me,” he growls. Sherlock chuckles and raises his palms to face the sky.

“You’re on.”

***

That’s how the two boys find themselves spread out on John’s bedroom floor, textbooks surrounding them and leaves of file paper littering the few gaps in between. A pizza John ordered a few hours ago sits half eaten in front of him, emitting a suspicious odour, and Sherlock’s forehead is crinkled as he points at the file in front of him, rambling on about transverse waves and how they _obviously_ enable us to gain a _basic_ understanding of the shape of the earth.

John laughs and reaches for an olive that rolled onto his bedroom floor, dropping it on his tongue and chewing obnoxiously, “I don’t even think you know what you’re saying anymore,” he jokes, resisting the urge to laugh at Sherlock disgusted face.

“You’re just being an idiot,” the younger boy whines, picking up the folder and waving it in John’s face for emphasis, “The longitudinal waves-”

“I thought they were transverse?”

“Well, yes, but there are-”

The door downstairs slams and both boys look towards the sound. John recovers after a second, but Sherlock continues to stare outside as there are general sounds of life from downstairs, followed by soft voices and footsteps on the stairs.

“Sherlock?”

The dark-haired boys eyes snap straight back onto John’s, and they’re wide and scared just as they were the first time he sat next to him in maths. “What’s wrong?” John asks, shifting himself into a sitting position, “It’s just my parents.”

There’s a light knock at the door and Sherlock springs to his feet, pulling a pile of papers and a few textbooks into his arms. John’s mother pushes the door open slowly, a polite smile on her face, and Sherlock immediately cringes before making a dash out of the room. John stares, dumbfounded, as the boy sprints down the stairs and fumbles with the front latch a moment before letting himself out and vanishing.

***

John’s woken at one in the morning to an irritating taping sound. It takes him a moment to realise the sound is coming from his bedroom window, and a fraction longer to notice the reason his window is making the noise is because someone’s throwing something at it. Blearily, he swings his legs out of bed and drags himself over to the source of his unrest. He pulls the curtains back and stares at the street below for a moment, before frowning and immediately flicking the handle on the window. The glass swings out of the way and he leans out, elbows resting on the window sill.

The two boys stare at each other in silence, before John raises his hands in the air with a silent prayer and jogs down the steps to let Sherlock in.

His hair is stuck up in odd places, his face paler than normal. He’s wearing the same clothes as earlier and when John opens the door he folds his arms over his chest and hunches his shoulders. John silently beckons him in and, pressing a finger to his lips, leads the way upstairs. Sherlock follows behind slowly, neither saying a word until the residents’ bedroom door is firmly shut.

John sits down on his bed (the mattress making a light huffing sound as he does so) and Sherlock stands by the door, his fingers tapping out a nervous rhythm and his forehead tense. The sandy-haired boy frowns and gestures to the bed besides him, “Did you want to…” he trails off as Sherlock jumps over and sits next to him, staying tense for a moment before slowly unravelling like an old cassette tape. John nods to himself and clears his throat awkwardly.

“Listen,” he starts hesitantly, almost wishing Sherlock would start the conversation for him, “About earlier, I know you’re not exactly-”

Sherlock turns to face him suddenly and John stops, meeting his eyes with a frown. The younger boy’s eyes flicker to John’s lips and then, without a pause, his soft cupids bow is pressing firmly against John’s slightly chapped mouth. John stays perfectly still in shock, until Sherlock emits a terrible pornographic-sounding moan and the older boy snaps back into himself. His hands find themselves on the youngers shoulders and he shoves him away, hard.

Sherlock’s face goes that oh-so familiar shade of red and his eyes widen, before he jumps up off of the bed and runs down the stairs once again.

***

It isn’t until weeks later the two boys see each other again. John’s got a few pens stuffed in his pocket and Sherlock clutching a clear pencil case in his grip. Their eyes meet across the same-old cafeteria and John’s about to approach his friend when the exams officer steps forward and calls for order.

The two file into their maths exam, and Sherlock’s eyes stay fixed on his paper despite the glances John throws his way.

***

Results day is August 28th.

John is one of the first into the building.

Sherlock is the last.

They don’t meet.

***

School starts again September 9th, and although John’s wearing his own clothes instead of his uniform, and despite the fact his timetable includes free periods and entirely consists of subjects he enjoys, nothing feels particularly new or exciting. His mum drops him off at school, and his new hair cut makes his ears tickle in the wind. He pulls down on the sleeves of his jumper and takes a few steps towards the entrance of school, before freezing when he hears someone calling his name.

He spins around quickly and grins, his eyes immediately locking onto Sherlock. The boy looks distressed, and tired, and not at all well, but he’s talking and seems to be actively engaging with John so that’s enough.

“Thank god,” John smiles, feeling tension he didn’t even know he was carrying seep out of his shoulders, “I was half-worried you’d offed yourself for a while there.”

Sherlock’s face falls and his brows draw together in confusion, “What?”

“Where have you _been_?”

“I-” Sherlock’s face turns ever so slightly pink and John immediately regrets his question, an apology on the tip of his tongue, when the shy boy continues, “I thought you might be mad. Before. When I… so I googled what to do. Because – I mean, I _told_ you. I don’t have… friends. And it said that… sometimes people like… So I kissed you. But then you seemed even _angrier_. So I thought. Maybe, I should just, you know.”

John’s index finger finds its way to his exposed ear (he _really_ doesn’t like the new hair cut) and he runs it along the ridge awkwardly. He glances around at the moving crowd and scrunches his nose, “I wasn’t mad. Just a bit… I mean I didn’t think you…”

“I don’t. I think. I mean, I don’t think I…” Sherlock sighs (although it sounds more like a whimper) and he flaps his hands in that way of his. John smiles and reaches for his hand, squeezing it lightly.

“Look, it doesn’t matter. Just, well. We’re fine now, alright? Consider it forgotten about.”

“But I-”

“But nothing.” John smiles and drops Sherlock’s hand, tugging on his bag strap and taking a step towards the school, “Come on. Wouldn’t want you to be late and lose your table in the corner.”

Sherlock blinks owlishly, before nervously smiling and stumbling a little in his effort to follow John.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos really are amazing.


End file.
